


The Reaper's Ghost

by CornishIvy



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: AU, Historical AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 13:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CornishIvy/pseuds/CornishIvy
Summary: After a long day of working in the fields, Wirt heads home.





	The Reaper's Ghost

              The sun was setting over the fields, and Wirt was making his weary way from the lake. The failing light clung like honey to the tops of the autumn trees and set the hayfields ablaze. He squinted against it and raised his free hand to shade his eyes. The dirt road, if it could even be called that, rose and fell with the hilly countryside, surrounded on both sides by rows of hay and corn, but otherwise continued in one long line. With every step Wirt took, the road would seem to stretch even farther away.

               A quiet wind stirred the stalks into an ocean of gold and carried the smell of woodsmoke from the houses that were scattered throughout the hills. His shoulders burned with a steady ache that came from a good day’s work, though he wasn’t usually the kind to appreciate such things. He considered quickening his pace. He didn’t.  

               With his scythe slung over his shoulder and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he strove to let himself enjoy the rising chorus of crickets and birds in the thicket along the pathway and not think too longingly of a warm hearth and food. A swim after working all day for the harvest had seemed like such a good idea in the heat of the afternoon. But the shadows stretched as he walked and he began to shiver.

                It would be a while yet before he was warm again. If ever.

                He gave up any attempt at keeping up his spirits, and kept his eyes fixed on the path ahead. The fields were growing too shadowed to see anyway, and the birds slowly left off their singing. The crickets, on the other hand, persisted in their frantic melodies.

                Wirt paused at a fork in the road. A thin track led away from the fields, toward a hill where he could just make out the glow of a fire in a cottage. He took half a step towards it, but recoiled. He bounced the scythe against his shoulder contemplatively, biting his lip. In the end, he sighed and continued on the road, away from the house.

                Not long after the track and the light had vanished into the hills behind, Wirt was brought up short. A low crumbling wall had been set against the road decades ago, when there had been shepherds in the valley, to discourage errant sheep from straying. It had no such use now, but had become a fixture that no one could be bothered to remove. Upon it sat a girl he had never seen before.

                By the light of an old lantern set on the stone beside her, Wirt could make out coppery red hair twisted into a failing knot and subdued with ribbons that matched her pale, robin’s egg gown. The dusting of freckles over her nose crinkled as she frowned.

                The girl paid him no attention as he approached. She twirled cloudy wisps of wool around her hand, spinning out long strands with almost exaggerated care. The spindle bobbed and spun like a spider on a line. A breeze arose, and the thread trembled with it.

                 When he was abreast of her, she looked away from her work and started at the sight of him. Her eyes blazed in the lantern’s light, pale as sunshine strained through water. “Where did you come from?” she demanded crossly, “What do you think you’re doing, sneaking around like that?”

                Wirt stopped and stammered, “I-I wasn’t sneaking! I’m just walking. What are _you_ doing here?”

                The girl sardonically raised the spindle, “What does it look like?”

                “Oh! Um, I mean, where did _you_ come from? Yes. Because. I’ve never seen you before.”

                She returned to her work with a wry smile, “Seen everyone in the world, have you?”

                “Well, no,” he said, adjusting the weight of the scythe, “Of course not. Uh. Never mind. It’s none of my business anyway.”

                 “Wait,” she said when he began to step away, “Sorry. It’s just,” she gestured to the yarn, “This isn’t exactly my favorite thing in the world, you know? Why don’t you sit? You look half dead.”

                Wirt barked a startled laugh and joined her on the wall, “Only half?” he asked, suddenly morose.

                “Oh, relax,” the girl huffed. “You’d better not mope this whole time. What kind of company is that?”

                “Sorry,” he said, ducking his shoulders. They sat in complete silence for half a minute while Wirt fidgeted unhappily. Finally, he burst out, “Who _are_ you, anyway? I mean, not to be rude, but I know everyone in the valley and, well. Maybe not everyone, but most of them. And I, uh. Never mind. Sorry.”

                The girl chuckled and put down her spinning. “I’m Beatrice,” she said, “What’s your name?”

                “Wirt.”

                “ _Wirt_? Really?”

                “Yeah,” he groused, “What’s wrong with it?”

                “Oh,” she said, not bothering to hide her grin, “Nothing.”

                Wirt tried to glare at her, but wound up smiling shyly back, “Yeah. It was my granddad’s name.  So. Yeah.”

                “Huh,” Beatrice said mildly, “So your name is already in the cemetery.”

                That caught him rather off guard.

                “Um, yeah, I guess. Is that… important?”

                Beatrice took a breath to answer, but was abruptly cut off by a high, sing-song voice calling, “ _Wiiiirt!”_ Wirt jerked at the sound, half-rising from his seat, eyes wide.

                “Greg!” he called back before sinking back on the wall. Beatrice raised a hand to his shoulder, but let it fall without touching him.

                 “ _Hey, Wiiiirt!”_ The voice came again. It echoed against the thicket. Wirt became suddenly aware of several voices and bobbing lights in the valley below. Faint cries just barely reached him, but he could guess what they were saying.

                A tiny light came bouncing up the road, held by a grubby little boy that swung it about, completely careless. The child had a hand over his eyes, as though shading them from a sun that wasn’t there, “Where’d you go, brother o’ mine?” he asked merrily, “Is it a hunt? A Wirt hunt? You can’t hide from me!”

               “Oh, Greg,” Wirt moaned as the boy reached the wall.

               Greg paused, so close that Wirt and Beatrice could have reached out and touched him, and hummed thoughtfully.

               “Now if I were a Wirt,” he mused, “Where would I be?”

                He was startled out of his thoughts by a high, keening wail that rose from within the valley. Wirt paled at the sound and Greg hugged his little lantern close, frowning.

                “That’s a little scary,” he mumbled, “But it’s a-okay! Whatever that monster was, it’s over there. And I’m over here. Yessir, nothing to worry about at all.”

                The voices that had been calling for Wirt vanished, leaving the night eerily silent and suffocating. Even the crickets had fallen quiet.

                “Oh boy,” Greg said, “Should I go back? No! I need to find Wirt! Oh no!” a terrible thought seemed to strike, “What if that beast got him?”

                “Greg,” Wirt said, standing. He paced nervously around his little brother, keeping just out of the tiny lantern’s light, “Greg, go home. You shouldn’t be out here at night, just go home.”

                “I should go home,” Greg said, glancing uncertainly back down the road, “But Wirt’s still out here. I don’t know. I can’t just leave him. Mom was so worried! I don’t know.”

                “I _do_ know,” Wirt said. He reached out, then pulled back. “Go home, please. There’s nothing you can do.”

                “I know!” Greg exclaimed. He marched over to the wall. Beatrice swept her legs up as Greg sat himself just beneath her, back against the stone.

                “I’m going to wait right here,” he said decisively, “Since I can’t go forward, and I can’t go back. That makes sense, right?”

                “No, Greg,” Beatrice answered softly, “No that really doesn’t.”

                But the child sat, resolute.

                The moon rose high over the fields, and the wind grew colder. Wirt had given up trying to convince his brother to return home, and stood in the road, wringing his hands and craning to spot anyone who might be approaching. Greg amused himself by singing. Some songs Wirt knew, some were certainly his brother’s compositions. Beatrice took up her spinning, pausing now and then to pat at her pocket, as though checking its contents.

                But the little lantern burned out, and the darkness pressed, until Greg’s songs devolved into a steady chant of, “Just gotta wait, just gotta wait.”

                At last, Wirt heard the trundling of a cart and a horse’s soft hoofbeats. He leapt towards it, waving his arms, “Over here! He’s over here!”

                The cart drew closer and stopped just as it reached the wall.

                “Greg!” the driver cried. She leapt from her perch and scooped the little boy into her arms before he could stand. “Oh, Greg, where were you? Didn’t you hear us calling you?”

                “Oh, no,” Greg mumbled sleepily, “I was singing too loud. Sorry, Sara. Did you find Wirt?”

                Sara buried her face in Greg’s hair. When she didn’t say anything, Greg prodded at her shoulder.

                “Sara?” he prompted, “Where was he?”

                “It’s time to go home,” came the muffled reply.

                “Okay,” Greg yawned, “Wirt’s taking me frog hunting tomorrow. He has to, because he promised. Do you want to come?”

                Sara set him gently in the cart and took up the reins.

                “There’s still honey back here!” Greg exclaimed, “Did you leave the market early?”

                “Yes,” Sara croaked. She cleared her throat and said, “You can have some, if you like.”

                “Oh boy! Thanks!”

                She smiled at him before turning away to hide the way her face crumpled. With a sharp flick, the cart was off, Greg chatting happily as they went.

                Wirt watched them until they vanished into the night.

                Once they were gone, Beatrice sighed and pulled a pair of scissors from her pocket. She neatly snipped the unspun wool from the spindle and stowed it away. She lifted the lantern and stood.

                “Why don’t you come with me?” she asked gently, “The sun will be rising soon.”

                “Yeah,” Wirt said. He took up his scythe and shrugged. “I might as well.”

                “Come on,” Beatrice took his free hand and tugged him towards the wall, “It’ll be great. We’ll get something warm to eat.”

                “That sounds nice,” Wirt agreed.

                Heedless of her long skirt, Beatrice hopped over the wall. His hand never leaving hers, Wirt followed. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title came from a song by Dean Gitter. I super recommend the cover by Sean Cook. A great song to write to! Please let me know what you guys think, and thanks so much for reading! :)


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